A Painful Case
by hermits-unite
Summary: This all takes place before the series... Just so you know... ANYWAY Sherlock is an emotional cripple, never letting anyone in, trying to convince himself of the soul's loneliness. Then he meets Molly Hooper, and his life is forever changed. Be ready to feel those feels! WARNING: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH


It was always just him, the high functioning sociopath, the man with no heart. Sherlock Holmes lived in the city of London at 221B Baker Street. While he found the city to be loud and cruel, he loved it. He loved the sound of busy traffic, the way the modern buildings looked next to the old ones, and all of the people that he could figure out just with one glance, all the stupid, little people. He chuckled, his curly mop of black hair covering his eyes as they filled with condescending mirth.

He never really had any friends other than the people who were forced to put up with his unusual behavior. He occasionally allowed himself to think that he had people who truly cared, but he quickly put them to an abrupt end.

It was early in the afternoon when he met her. Storming into the morgue, he found himself in the presence of a mousy young woman.

"Hello, how can I help you?" She asks him, confused.

"I was told that the body of Michael Moore was brought here," he said, his bright blue eyes scanning her.

She looked uncomfortable in his presence, muttering yes, and leading to a sheet covered body. She lifted the sheet, "Michael Moore, Caucasian male, thirty-four years old, cause of death is asphyxiation, signature is constant with the other murders."

Sherlock nodded politely, already knowing the information that she told him. He was honestly surprised at how at home she looks in the morgue, surrounded by death. While she continued talking to him, he worked to permanently committing the young pathologist to memory. Her face had an intelligent look to it, her brown eyes steady as she read off the cause of death. He left the room once she was finished, telling her his name before he left her in the cold morgue.

It was a week before he saw her again. Her name was Molly Hooper, and he had decided that she wasn't as annoying as everyone else. Their third meeting was completely by chance. He then decided that maybe she wouldn't be a complete bore and asked to see her again. Her cheeks a bright red, she accepts. This was the first of many meetings with the mousy pathologist. Little by little, he opened up to her, entangling his thoughts with hers. He talked with her about his work, shared his intellectual life with her, ranted to her about the crap that plagued the telly. And she listened to all of it.

With a loving hand she urged him on, encouraging him to open up to her, and she became the one he confessed to. He often went to her small flat, spending their time alone together. Sometimes he caught himself listening to the sound of her voice, her laugh, the way she smiled. But with each passing night, he found himself doubting his actions, the little voice in the back of his head whispering about his soul and it's incurable loneliness. Eventually these meetings came to an end when Molly kissed him. He pulled back from her, getting up slowly and stumbling out of the apartment. He did not talk to her for two weeks, ignoring her texts and not answering the door when she came over. Two months later she stopped trying to contact him. Two years passed and Sherlock returned to his original way of life. He soon met John Watson who joined him in solving crimes. He kept away from St. Bart's, in case he ran into her.

One evening, as he scanned the newspaper for potential cases, his eyes widened in surprise. He reread the article. Once he had committed the article to memory, he stormed out of the apartment. Sherlock walked along Baker Street, his face contorting into a look of anger and grief.

She was gone. His companion, the one who counted the most. The small article in the paper disgusted him. How dare they put her life into a few sympathetic phrases, feigning sentiment. He closed his eyes, shaking in pure and utter rage. Walking to the alleyway, he punched the wall angrily. After relentlessly punched the brick wall, he slid down the wall, sitting on the dirty alleyway floor. As he sat there, he finally realized that she was dead, gone, that she had ceased to exist, that she had become nothing more than a distant memory. Now that she was gone, he realized just how lonely she must have been, sitting in her flat all by herself night after night with no one to love her. He was lonely too, at least he would be until he died and became a memory.

It was eleven when he wandered back home. He stumbled into the flat, throwing his Belstaff and scarf carelessly to the floor. And for the first time in two years he felt truly and utterly alone.

_**Accomplished Pathologist, Molly Hooper, 36, Dies **_

_Today at Saint Bart's Hospital, famed pathologist Molly Hooper dies at the young age of 37, after tragically being the victim of a hit-and-run. Friends and family members gather to remember the life of this beautiful young woman in two weeks. _

_"She will be missed, but sometimes I wonder if she wanted to die," a friend of Dr. Hooper reports._

_Molly Hooper will be missed. _


End file.
